To Have Wings
by rainbooks
Summary: Little girls all over the UK have been snatched from their beds. Margaret isn't so little, but now she's been taken, too. It's all because the new heir of Wendy Darling has yet to be found, and all of Neverland is scrambling to get to her first. After all, he who has the Wendy-bird controls Peter Pan, and he who controls Peter Pan owns all of Neverland.
1. Chapter 1: Stories and Photographs

To Have Wings

by Rainbooks

* * *

Chapter One

"Stories and Photographs"

 _"Poor little Peter Pan, he sat down and cried, and even then he did not know that, for a bird, he was sitting on his wrong part. It is a blessing that he did not know, for otherwise he would have lost faith in his power to fly, and the moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it. The reason birds can fly and we can't is simply that they have perfect faith, for to have faith is_ ** _to have wings_** _."_

J.M. Barrie, _The Little White Bird_

* * *

Worst of all, Margaret thought, was the weather. Or the food, or the _accents_ — God, she couldn't understand a word anyone was saying, especially the kid, who insisted on following her around all day.

Actually, _that_ was the worst part, she decided. Her little cousin Danny who loved dinosaurs and rocket ships and was always around and saying in his tiny English voice: "Margaret, will you play with me?" The way he appeared around hallway corners and snuck up behind her made Margaret feel like she were in a horror movie.

The only time Danny was sure not to bother Margaret was when she was calling back home. His mother declared that she have privacy, then. This only made talking to her father even better.

London is eight hours ahead of Los Angeles, but Margaret's father, Mr. Vega, worked the graveyard shift as a security officer for the zoo. Ever since Margaret had gone to visit her aunt and cousin in the UK, he's called during his break around 3 am his time. Margaret took his calls in the garden, where Danny and his mother couldn't overhear.

" _Prawn_ flavored chips?" Mr. Vega said one morning. "Like shrimp?" Margaret watched her father lean back in the wheely chair in his office. He made a face at her through the phone. "Yugh."

"Yeah," said Margaret. She sat on the porch swing at the back of the yard. Strips of light fell through wooden slats above her and onto her head and lap. "They've even ruined snacks out here."

"Well, did you try them?" said Mr. Vega, who could be rather agreeable at times. When Margaret shook her head he tsked and waved her away. "You can't say they don't have good snacks unless you try them, dummy."

Margaret swung at a butterfly that got too close to her face. "I'm good, but I can mail you a bag if you want."

"It's all you," said Mr. Vega, munching on a bag of original Lays. "But I don't like seafood! And you do, so it's different." Margaret smiled and Mr. Vega smiled back, but then, he tried to look stern. "Hey, I hope you're being nice out there. Open to new things. That's your family, you know."

Margaret stopped smiling and looked off at the fancy home her Aunt Laura lived in. There were wicker chairs on the patio and a toy jeep parked on the grass. Inside, past Danny's face pressed against the glass, Margaret could see the giant television mounted on the wall, and the big, plush couch.

This is where her mother's sister had been while Margaret and her father had been struggling for the past sixteen years. Not only financially, but with Mrs. Vega's death. Margaret had only met her Aunt Laura Goode once, nine years before, at her mother's funeral, and she hadn't heard from her since. Until now, when Laura suggested a summer's visit with the family.

Family. Margaret scoffed. "I know who my family is," she said.

Margaret held up her phone long after she finished talking to her father, pretending that he was still on the screen. When her arm got tired, she pocketed her phone. No longer bound by the privacy rule, Danny then slid open the glass door and ran up to her. "Margaret," he said, all ruddy cheeked. "Do you want to play video games?"

"We can play hide and seek," said Margaret. She adjusted herself and stretched her legs out on the bench, wiggling her toes in the strips of light as she swung. "I'll be It."

Danny frowned. "You're not very good at finding," he said. "No offense." He went behind the swing to push it. Margaret felt how he could barely move her with his little boy arms. She picked at a hole in the knee of her skinny jeans and ignored the staggering way the swing moved. "Will you tell me a story?" Danny asked.

"I don't know any stories," said Margaret.

Danny hung his arms over the back of the swing and leveraged his legs off the grass. The swing teetered and squeaked in response. "You just have to make it up," he said. "You can think of one and tell me later."

Margaret pulled out her phone again and checked all her social media accounts. "Okay, sounds good." she said. She had no notifications anywhere. She slipped her phone back in her pocket.

Mrs. Davis came out onto the porch. "Come in, you two," she called. "Laura has something to show you." Mrs. Davis was the old woman who watched after Danny while Aunt Laura was at work. Margaret was incredibly grateful for her. When she learned that Aunt Laura had a small son, she was worried she would be expected to babysit him on her visit. The idea had been abhorrent.

Margaret and Danny went inside, going barefoot across the grass. Danny skipped ahead of her.

Aunt Laura was inside, on a break from work and still in a pencil skirt and blouse. She held a photograph and seemed very excited. She lifted up Danny when he barreled in to meet her, even though she was almost as small as he was.

"I've been looking all over," said Aunt Laura. She plopped onto the big, plush couch with Danny squirming in her lap. "And I've _finally_ found this photo in a box in storage. Take a look." She handed Margaret the photograph, smiling. "Do you recognize anyone?" It was a portrait of a family in front of a foggy, gray background. "That's from 1988," said Aunt Laura, which was clear by the atrocious outfits and hairstyles — giant sideburns on the dark haired father, the mother with hair that flared out in curls. And there were three girls, one younger than the other two, who looked like twins.

Heart sinking, Margaret ran a finger over the face of one of the twins girls, with blonde pigtails and a red birthmark on her neck. "Mom," she murmured. She expected to be reminded of the late Mrs. Vega at some point on the trip, but she didn't think it would make her so sad.

Danny jumped off his mother's lap. "Let me see!" he said. Margaret let him take the photo and sat on the couch with her hands pressed between her knees. "Oh, I know this!" cried Danny. He handed the copy back to his mother, then ran off toward his room.

Aunt Laura scooted closer to Margaret on the couch and Mrs. Davis looked on over their shoulders. "How darling!" said Mrs. Davis. "Are you that little one, Laura?"

"Yes," Aunt Laura said. "I was six at the time, and the twins were eight." She pointed at the other twin girl, who would have been, Margaret knew, her Aunt Karen. "That's the year we lost our other sister. We were never quite the same after that. Certainly no more family photos."

Margaret looked off toward the garden again, feeling rather uncomfortable. She yearned to go back out to the porch swing, alone.

Aunt Laura placed a hand on Margaret's knee and Margaret offered her a brief smile, trying to be nice, like her father said.

"It is difficult, I know," said Aunt Laura. "Ours is a family defined by loss. My dear husband, Henry, Karen, and your mother." Aunt Laura looked wistfully at the photograph. "Her, I lost twice. When she died, of course, but also, years before that, when she left — pregnant with you. Loss like that makes it makes it difficult to become close with other people, but I'd like to try."

Margaret looked at her aunt, and couldn't find it in her to smile again. This, she thought, was really the worst thing about being shipped off to the UK. The way Laura looked just like Mrs. Vega used to, with blonde hair and nervous hands. Laura had the same green eyes Margaret remembered on her mother, only Laura's were kinder. And she wanted to be _close._ The prospect seemed unlikely and offensive.

Aunt Laura checked her watch. "I have to get back to the office," she said, and rubbed Margaret's shoulder before she stood. "Rebecca, please make sure Danny eats all his veggies before he gets any sweets, tonight. I found carrots hidden in his pockets, again."

"Of course, dear," said Mrs. Davis, handing Aunt Laura her blazer. The photo was left on the coffee table and when no one was looking, Margaret took it.

She brought it up to the guest room upstairs and laid on top of the covers with the curtains closed. She looked at the tiny version of her mother in the dark. Margaret looked little like Mrs. Vega had, inheriting, instead, her father's warmer complexion and dark hair. She did have the Goodes' green eyes, though. She wondered whether hers were kind like Laura's or shrewd as Mrs. Vega's had been.

But had they really been shrewd? Or is that just how Margaret saw her mother in her memory: strict and overprotective.

She wished she had a more current photo of Mrs. Vega so she could remember — perhaps a family shot like this one, in a studio, with herself and both of her parents standing behind her. They'd have less ridiculous hairstyles, maybe. Margaret hardly even remembered how her mother wore her hair.

Long after Margaret wondered what was keeping Danny from bothering her for so long, he barged into the room. The sun had set by then, and the hallway outside the guest room was dark as well. Margaret hadn't realized it had gotten so late — she missed lunch _and_ dinner.

Danny flicked on the light. "Look," he said, coming forward with something. "When I was very small, a pirate came into my room through the window. He left this here."

Intrigued, Margaret sat up from her bed. She took the thing Danny held. It was a ripped and worn photograph — an exact copy of the one she'd spent the day looking at, only it was just the lower half, with her grandparent's heads torn off.

There were dirty fingerprints on the photo, and some glitter smeared on that made it shimmer. She flipped it over and found the word "Lily" scribbled on the back. Strangest of all, there was a circle drawn around her mother's little face.

"Why did you do this?" Margaret asked. She couldn't understand what game Danny was trying to play. He had defaced a photo of their family, drew a creepy circle around her mother, and what was that about pirates?

"I didn't do it!" said Danny. "The pirates did. See?" He ran his hand across the photo and showed Margaret his shimmering fingertips. "That's fairy dust."

Margaret was becoming annoyed. The photo was meaningful to her, and Danny had destroyed one of what she supposed were the only two copies. She handed the photo back and stood. "What did Mrs. Davis make for dinner?" she asked.

"I mean it!" Danny followed her out into the hall. "I was going to tell Mum, but I couldn't talk very good back then, so I hid it in my closet for later. And then I forgot until only just today!"

Margaret didn't respond, hurrying down the steps and going into the kitchen. She found a covered plate of pasta in the fridge and put it in the microwave.

"Margaret, dear!" cried Mrs. Davis from the living room. "There's dinner for you in the fridge."

"Got it, thank you!" Margaret yelled back.

Danny climbed onto the counter. "Anyway, did you think of a story yet?"

"No," said Margaret, focusing on the countdown of the microwave.

"But Margaret," Danny whined. "You said you would."

Margaret sighed, pressing her hands into her closed eyes. "Danny," she warned.

" _You said_ that you were going to think of a story to tell me later, so now you have to or else that's a fib and fibbing is very naughty," said Danny.

"Why don't you go ask Mrs. Davis to tell you a story?" said Margaret.

"I've _heard_ all of Mrs. Davis' stories, Margaret, _please_." Danny threw himself back onto the ground and stomped his foot.

"Danny, I really need you to go away," said Margaret. There were just thirty seconds left and then she would take her food in the bathroom where she could lock the door. "I'll tell you a story tomorrow."

Danny's face scrunched up like he was going to cry. Margaret wanted to shove her hand into his little face. "You're lying! You always lie! You don't ever want to play with me!" Margaret sighed again. Twenty more seconds. "Tell me a story, Margaret! You have to! You have to tell me a story. Margaret, you-"

"Okay!" cried Margaret, and squatted to his height. She looked him right in his wavering green eyes and told him, "There was once a very annoying, very _irritating_ little boy, who bothered everyone so much that they all moved away from him while he was asleep. When he woke up, he was all alone, and he had to play by himself for once, and his family was happy because they never had to see him again."

The microwave beeped.

As soon as Danny had begun his first wail, Margaret stood, took her plate from the microwave, and slipped out of the kitchen. She could hear Mrs. Davis coming in to comfort him behind her, but she kept going, back up the stairs and into the guest room, slamming the door behind her.

Oh, so furious and terribly lonely, Margaret cried so hard she almost couldn't finish her pasta.

—

Margaret awoke during the quietest part of night. She had fallen asleep in jeans over the covers.

She pulled the hairs stuck to her face into a fresh bun and changed into sweats and a tank top. She then got properly into bed, ready for a deeper sleep, but there was something else wrong.

The curtains across the room fluttered in a breeze and Margaret furrowed her brows. She had kept that window closed since she'd arrived. She'd always preferred to sleep that way — something her mother had imposed on her when she was young.

Sure that she wouldn't be able to sleep otherwise, Margaret went across the room to shut the window. She pulled open the curtains to reach it, and saw several things at once that did not make sense.

First, there were a group of men outside of her window — impossible because she was on the second floor. But they were there, several feet above the ground with their boots planted in a dingy below them, floating, as if in water.

And they were surprised to see her, those big, dirty men (and one boy, Margaret noticed) floating outside _her_ window, looked shocked to see her there. And something about the way they were adorned with beads and dirty shirts made Margaret think something odd: _These are the pirates Danny was talking about,_ she thought.

But oddest of all was that their faces were lit, glowing in the light of a little being the size of Margaret's fist, and it tinkled at her, and Margaret was able to murmur the word, " _Fairy,_ " before she was snatched from the room.


	2. Chapter 2: Mornings

Chapter Two

"Mornings"

* * *

When Clementine emerged from beneath the clear pond waters, she saw that there was a boy crouched down on the bank. She recognized him in the pale dawning light, though if she hadn't, she would have known him by the way the early risen sprites gathered shyly round the waterside, and how the ghostly shadow of the pond's naiad shimmered underneath its surface. Clem felt the jungle itself rouse and swell in the boy's presence, the trees and their dangling vines swaying softly in the hopes of pleasing him.

Clementine knew the boy well, and slicking back her soaked black hair, she smiled. "Peter Pan," she called out. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Well," Peter called back without raising his gaze. Swimming leisurely toward him, Clementine saw now that he was riffling through her bag. "I'm robbing you." Looking disappointed, Peter held the bag upside down and dumped everything out of it. Some things stayed on shore beside him while others tumbled off of the mossy boulders that lined the pond and plopped into the water.

"I see," said Clementine. She arrived at the boy's bare feet and floated in the shallow water there. Peter's fairy nestled in his dirty hair and Clementine bowed her head to her. "Coralie," she greeted politely as Peter chucked an old glass figurine Clem had found into the pond. Clementine rolled onto her back to watch it go. "Are you two alone, then? I miss the boys. They don't visit me anymore."

Peter shook a tiny bottle filled halfway with sand by his ear. "That's because the lost boys are here so they don't _have_ to be around boring grownups." He threw the bottle over his shoulder and it landed among a carpet of bright green ferns.

Peter stopped while licking a melted yellow button he'd picked up to examine the hurt look Clem gave him then. After a moment, he returned his focus on tucking the button in the pant pocket he reserved for yellow things. In lieu of an apology for his joke, he motioned to the thick wildlife behind him. "Lip's hiding in a tree," he said.

Clementine rolled back over to peer around Peter at the boy who now dropped from a tree, disturbing an assemblage of brownies who were meeting beneath a large mushroom. Lip ignored their squeals and the shaking of their tiny fists as he dusted his spoiled shirt and pushed aside vines to join Peter and Clementine. "I _was_ keeping watch." Lip sat upon a tall boulder beside Peter who didn't spare him a glance. "We're on enemy territory," he added, glaring at Clementine.

Clementine put her elbows on a mossy rock and her chin on her fists. "Peter just ruins everything, doesn't he?" she said.

Looking at Lip, Peter's own right hand, Clementine forgave Peter for his comment completely. Clem was no longer a child, sure, but neither, she saw, was Peter's favorite lost boy. Lip had grown. His voice had deepened and his strength made him bulky. Clementine looked, then, at Peter himself, his brows furrowed in concentration as he tried to unscrew a jar of expired jam. Clem observed that Peter looked tired; and old. He and Lip could have both been a Mainland's fourteen years old.

Clementine's books from the Mainland would have said that Peter must have been "projecting." She had to feel sorry for him.

Peter tossed the jar with a heavy thump in the moist dirt. "You don't have anything good," he said.

"I saw you take that button, Peter," said Clementine.

"Where's the good stuff?" Peter asked. He crawled onto his knees and lowered his face to Clementine's to to look searchingly into her eyes. Unfazed by his closeness, Clementine smiled.

Beside Peter, Lip rolled his eyes, pulling off his holey boots and lowering his feet into the water. Coralie leapt off of Peter's head and flitted into the trees nearby, tinkling crabbily.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," said Clementine. While she could, she studied the sparkling reflection of the pond water in the boy's blue eyes and how the stream of early sunlight through the trees turned his light hair golden.

Slyly, Peter glanced below Clem's chin then looked back into her eyes. He smirked. "You're not supposed to get leather wet, you know," he said. "You'll ruin it."

Clementine grabbed the drawstring pouch that floated in the water between them and pulled its strap from around her neck. "I'm a princess, Peter," she said, holding it out for him. "I'll just get a new one." Peter snatched the bag from Clementine and yanked it open. Peering inside, he grinned.

Coralie appeared back from the woods and said something in Peter's ear. Peter made a face. "She says your cousin's coming," he said.

Clementine became distressed. "Don't go, Peter," she said.

Peter smiled roguishly, drawing the pouch around his neck and jumping to his feet. "But he hates me so much," he said. He leapt and flipped, and hung upside down, he winked. "I'll see you around, Princess," he said, then rising higher above the trees and flipping upright, he added in an alarmed tone, "Come on Lip! We gotta get out of here! Don't you know we're on enemy territory?"

Milo emerged from the woods soon enough to see Peter and Coralie disappear beyond the trees above. He watched as Lip sighed and stood, picking up his boots and going in the same direction Peter had gone. "Goodbye, Lip," Clementine called, and Lip lifted a half-hearted hand in departure.

"What did he want?" Milo asked when Lip had gone. He leaned down to pick up all of the knickknacks Peter hadn't tossed and put them back into Clem's bag.

"I don't know," said Clementine, staring off into the woods. That was the first time she had seen Peter Pan in several seasons. She couldn't say what had brought about the visit.

Milo grabbed Clementine's kaftan where she'd hung it on a low plant and he held it out for her. "You're naked," he said.

Clementine climbed out of the pond and took her kaftan. "How do you swim, Milo?" she asked.

"You ought to be dressed and ready," said Milo. "The council meeting is about to start."

Now donning her dampening kaftan, Clementine came before her cousin, who was brown-skinned and angular-eyed like she and many of the others in the Yinapiccin tribe. He so clearly resembled her and yet she saw so little of herself in him. She studied Milo for a moment longer, and then with a pruny finger, softened the furrow between his brows. Stepping into the jungle toward home, she said, "You worry too much."

—

There had been a mistake.

Margaret wasn't sure what her captors wanted in a victim, but she was certain she was not it. She was one of six prisoners — two in the cell with her, three others locked up in the next one — and she was the only one more than five feet tall. They others were all so young and blonde and, after hearing them murmur to each other, she noticed they were all English. The eldest of the prisoners after Margaret, was no more than ten years old.

Margaret imagined herself on an episode of _Sesame Street,_ tall, dark, and conspicuous among the other girls _: One of these things is not like the others. Which one is different, do you know?_

The other girls were probably still young enough to watch that show, Margaret thought. But, on a second thought: did _Sesame Street_ even exist anymore? Maybe they were too young to even know what it was.

Margaret glanced at them huddled together at the wall of iron bars separating the two cages, gripping each other's hands through the barrier.

Margaret sat as far away from them as she could get. One of them hadn't stopped whimpering since Margaret had gotten there, and Margaret had spent most of her time trying to tune out the noise. She focused on the way the floor tilted and swayed beneath them; the rumbling and creaking sounds coming from the walls; early morning light coming in slats from the ceiling.

Margaret had seen enough movies to know they were on a ship. When she really focused, she could hear the ocean outside. But what ocean? Where where they going? Who had done this to them?

"Pirates!" whispered one of the girls when Margaret had asked. She was the smallest of them all, with a lisp and a soiled nightgown.

Her answer made Margaret furious, and since then, she did not speak to the other prisoners or acknowledge their attempts to speak to her. These were the most terrifying hours of her life, and perhaps, the last of them, (What good reason was there for a group of men to kidnap and imprison six young girls? What would they do to Margaret when they realized she wasn't exactly their type?) and she was spending these hours with _more_ children and stupid stories of pirates.

But — and this was the worst part — Margaret couldn't help but wonder if the little girl was right. When she saw the men who had taken her, hadn't she thought the same thing? Didn't she think, looking at her kidnappers, that these were the pirates Danny was telling her about? The ones he said had drawn on an old photograph of her mother and smeared _fairy dust_ on it so it glittered? A fairy like the one she had seen, tinkling outside her window…

(Margaret would have thought she was asleep but her nightmares never lasted this long.)

The memory of Danny was acidic in her stomach. It seemed like she really was never going to see him again. She thought about how he bounded into her room every morning since she'd stayed with him and his mother, and how on the morning after her kidnapping, he'd find she wasn't there. Or maybe, he wouldn't come in at all. She had made him cry pretty hard that last night.

So how long would it take for the Goodes to realize she was missing? How long until they called the police? Until they called her father?

Mr. Vega would be devastated to hear she had gone. Maybe he would assume she'd run away, like she had done once when she was fourteen. He would feel so betrayed, and so so sad.

The sadness her father would feel, Margaret thought, was really the worst part of this whole thing. And it was his sadness that made her cry — though she suppressed her sobs and wiped the tears before the other girls could see. Margaret was all her father had, and if she didn't find a way home, he would never even know what happened to her.

A hatch on the ceiling outside the cells opened, momentarily blinding Margaret with brilliant light. Someone came down the stairs and closed the hatch behind them.

The girls pressed closer together, cowering in the corner, but Margaret, wiping up the rest of her tears, sat up to glare at the lanky, mop-haired, teenage boy that came down the steps. She had seen him before — he sometimes brought the prisoners their meals, and, Margaret remembered, he was with the big, muscly men who had taken her from the Goodes' home in the first place — and Margaret was very confused by him.

What did he have to do with all of this? This shrimpy boy who couldn't have been much older than Margaret was — if he was a pirate, she told herself, then she wasn't really afraid of them anymore. She wished he'd let her out of her cage for just five minutes. She could take him, one on one with this pirate boy and his big nose.

Margaret was nearly shaking with anger by the time the boy arrived at the cell. He looked right at her, seemingly unbothered by the hatred in her gaze, and held up a small black box for her to see. Margaret couldn't read what it said in the darkness, but kindly enough, the boy read it to her.

"Manic Panic Flash Lighting Bleach Kit," he said. He was English too, though his tone was lazy and slow. He sighed, and looked back at Margaret. "Yer getting a makeover. Boss's orders."

Margaret huffed. So they were making her blonde, too. Maybe her being there wasn't a mistake at all.

* * *

 **Hi! I've tried to write this a million times and I was going to give up (again) but I saw that people were reviewing so this time I'm going to just finish it, really, really, really truly.**

 **Haha, let me know what you think.**

 **-Zoe**


	3. Chapter 3: Plans

xoxo

Chapter 3

"Plans"

* * *

Ruth Kidd sat squished beside Robert Diaz on a rowboat headed toward an old fishing vessel called the Bluefin. With them was Helen Mull and gap-toothed Emmett Wallace who rowed them across the glittering sea. These four were the most favored of the pirate apprentices aboard the Jolly Rodger. They were nervous.

Kidd was glad to hear Mull break the silence with one of her dramatic sighs. "What?" Kidd asked, looking around Wallace's large, blond form to see her.

Small and with a shaved head, Mull leaned back against the bow of the boat and squinted at the far away coast of Port Smee. "I was just thinking," she said. "I suppose we'll always remember this as the last moment we shared as equals. Since, you know, the moment Captain Blackwood sees my Wendy-birds I'll be the clear choice for her successor."

Kidd scoffed. "That's right cocky of you, don't you think? You haven't even seen your girls. Or _ours_ , for that matter." Unlike Mull and Diaz, Wallace and Kidd had only selected one girl each. And after months of research, Kidd was nearly positive that despite other…unfortunate aspects to her Wendy, she had at least blood on her side, and with this, she rather imagined _herself_ as Blackwood's successor.

"Kidd's right, Mull," said Wallace while he rowed. "I wouldn't get ahead of myself if ye we me. _She's_ the one who's got a dog watching the prisoners." Wallace paused to look at Kidd over his shoulder. "What kind of _favors_ did you do for Elliot, eh, Kidd? To make sure yer girl's in tip-top shape for today?"

Mull threw a hand to her mouth in mock offense. "How scandalous!" she cried, and Diaz laughed and put his lanky arm over Kidd's shoulder. "Don't tease her," he said. "You know sensitive Kidd is about Elliot's crush on her."

Though she was fuming, Kidd didn't say a word: she'd learned not to engage the other apprentices' taunts when it came to her best friend, Arthur Elliot.

Ripping Diaz's arm from around her, Kidd caught the silverly eye of Henry Daniels in the rowboat a little ways behind theirs. A tattooed brute rowed him and Captain Verona Blackwood steadily toward them and she felt in his gaze that he was scolding their rowdiness. Now ashamed and irritated on top of nervous, Kidd faced forward and said, "Keep rowing, Wallace." Wallace winked at her and moved them into the shadow of the awaiting Bluefin.

Two brutes already onboard lifted them in when they were close enough. As soon as they were on deck, Billy Kincaid, the owner of the boat, fell upon them, smelling of fish and shaking his greasy curls. "I've had enough!" he shouted. "You tell Blackwood that I'll have no more secret pirate business conducted on me boat! I can't work like this, hear?"

Diaz clapped Kincaid on the shoulder. "Tell her yerself, Mate," he said. "She's coming this way."

Kincaid looked a little less sure of himself at that, but puffed out his chest regardless. "Right then, I will. I'll tell her meself!" he said.

Kidd saw Wallace and Mull share an amused look and felt a tickling pity for the man herself: he'd obviously never met the captain.

While she watched Kincaid ready himself for the captain's arrival, a tickle of hair on Kidd's face appeared with a low murmur of, "I need to talk to you." Kidd looked anxiously toward the other apprentices then followed her friend Arthur Elliot to stand looking over the wooden railing of the boat. They were close enough to the others so as not to be suspicious but far enough not to be overheard.

"Is everything okay?" said Kidd quietly. "Does she look alright?"

"Fine," said Arthur. "She looks fine." Though Kidd was watching the captain's rowboat approach the side of the Bluefin, she could feel Arthur's dark eyes watching her from underneath his floppy hair. "Listen," he said. "I don't think this is a good idea."

Kidd looked at Arthur, concerned. "What do you mean?" she asked. Remembering Wallace and Mull, she then looked quickly away, her face warming. Wallace was right that she had asked Arthur to pay extra attention to her Wendy-bird, but she hadn't _done_ anything to get him to do it. Arthur would have done anything she asked without incentive — like any good friend would.

Captain Blackwood was lifted aboard the Bluefin along with her fairy, Lucy, her first mate, Daniels, and the brute who had rowed them there. Kincaid had already begun to shout at them. "I can't fish when me crew can't go below me own deck!" he was saying.

"Sir," said Daniels, moving his coat to show off the array of weapons on his hip. "I suggest you rethink your tone."

Blackwood put up a thin hand. "Please, Henry," she said. She was an elegant, dark skinned woman, with long braids wrapped up into a large bun on the top of her head. She looked almost frail beside Kincaid's bulkiness. "We are a guest on this man's vessel. I will hear his complaints gladly."

From the other side of the ordeal, Kidd locked eyes with Wallace who raised his brows suggestively at her. She looked angrily away into the water below, gripping the railing. "Not a good idea," she repeated derisively. "This is the greatest plan to ever leave the Jolly Rodger."

"That's not what I—" Arthur began.

"No captain has ever concocted a scheme so thorough and clever, so _certain_ to win the war of our people and at last—" Kidd was quite aware of the fact that she had begun to parrot the rhetoric of Daniels and Blackwood herself. She finished their speech regardless, saying breathlessly, "at last defeating the murderous Peter Pan."

"Right," mumbled Arthur. "I suppose what I really meant was that it isn't _right,_ what we're doing _."_

Kidd turned fully toward Arthur with her face scrunched up in confusion. " _What?_ " she said, perhaps too loudly, then at the sound of Kincaid's wail of pain, looked back over her shoulder. She watched him crumple to the deck while Blackwood hid her favorite dagger in her belt.

"I must be going, Friend," said Blackwood. "But we'll speak more about your demands later. Now, will someone be kind enough to lead me below deck?"

"Some people just don't know when to quit," Kidd murmured, and giving Arthur another curious look, followed Blackwood and the other apprentices to the hatch. She spared a glance at Kincaid reaching for his dismembered ear on the deck beside him, blood matting up the curls on the right side of his head.

—

Kidd found herself at the back of the pack as they approached the holding cells in the sudden darkness below deck. She had been bombarded by a parade of unpleasant emotions in the last half-hour but was then reduced back to simple nervousness. At last, the result of months of hard work would be appreciated — hopefully.

"Boy," Captain Blackwood called from ahead. Kidd could spot Lucy's glow bouncing around the group.

"Yes, Captain," said Arthur. He left Kidd's side to shimmy through the crowd. He had held a lamp, and with his absence, the area around Kidd grew even dimmer. The other apprentices gathered around the cells, and while Kidd had, before today, been desperate to see her girl in person, she was now short of breath at the thought. She wasn't sure why she was so anxious — was it just that she was afraid Blackwood wouldn't choose her Wendy for the plan, or was it something else?

Kidd pressed in closer, allowing Diaz to block her view of the girls. But she could hear their whimpers. One was fully crying, though trying to keep it quiet.

"Why are they being kept in this condition?" Blackwood said, almost as if she pitied them. She crouched beside the cells. "They're sitting in their own filth."

Kidd felt a flicker of another sort of nervousness: if Arthur displeased Blackwood, she may well do to him what she did to Kincaid — or worse — and Kidd could do nothing about it. "My apologies, Captain," said Arthur from somewhere in the crowd. His voice was calm and it soothed Kidd's worries. "The brutes and I have taken care of the prisoners as well as we could with the resources we were given."

"No, no, no, no," said Blackwood, rising. "These girls are not our prisoners. They are our _guests_ and they shall be treated as such."

"Yes, Captain," Kidd heard Arthur say.

Mull looked over her shoulder at Kidd and she mouthed mockingly: _Yes, Captain._ Kidd did nothing but narrow her eyes spitefully back.

"Despite the grubbiness," said Blackwood. "I am pleased with your choices, Apprentices…Very pleased. Henry, what do you say?"

Daniels cleared his throat. Kidd saw only the glowing back of his head while he said, "This one is a little…old."

Kidd's heart spasmed in her chest: this was the moment she had been readying herself for. Hesitating only half a second, she pushed forward in front of Mull. "Yes," she began. "Captain, if I may." Kidd still did not look at the girls on the floor of the two cells before her, and looked instead between the the steady face of the captain to the flickering blue eyes of her first mate.

Captain Blackwood nodded for her to continue and Kidd spoke over the sound of her heartbeat in her ears and over the sound of the crying girl's sobs. "I have strong reason to believe that I have found the true direct descent of Wendy Darling in this girl—" she glanced at her briefly and barely saw her "—in Margaret Vega. She is sixteen years old, but it is my belief that it will take more than a little blonde girl to capture Pan's heart. It'll take—" the girl huffed and at last, Kidd looked down at her properly. She felt her face harden into a frown as she took the girl in. She was curled up on the floor as far away from the others as possible. She was warm-toned and and green-eyed and newly-blonde and _furious,_ looking directly back at Kidd with not a tear in her eyes. "—blood," Kidd made herself finish, despite the hollowing in her stomach. "It'll take Darling blood."

Kidd looked back at Blackwood importantly. "Also, there are the rumors," she said.

Wallace scoffed. " _Rumors._ "

"Carefully Emmett," said Blackwood, watching Kidd. "It is true that Peter Pan has been in hiding for quite a while, but you would have us believe these… _rumors…_ that he has gotten—"

"Old," Kidd interrupted, anxious to finish the conversation. She immediately regretted it but continued. "Yes. Perhaps for the Wendy's sake. Who can be sure how this bond works?"

Blackwood turned back toward the girls, humming to herself. Kidd decompressed for the first time in weeks, sensing that she had pleased her captain. Having seemingly been dismissed, she looked around for Arthur in the dim light and went to stand beside him, though he did not look at her when she arrived.

"Her name is Claire Bandercoot," Diaz was telling Blackwood when Kidd tuned back in.

"She's very pretty," Daniels said.

"Yes, if she would stop whimpering," said Blackwood. "Claire, dear," she called out to her. The girl's cries became more of a bellow once addressed. Blackwood raised her voice to be heard over her. "If you just stop crying, I'm sure we can become great friends."

But to no avail. Blackwood shook her head. "Shame," Kidd heard her say. She turned away to exit the hull. "Henry, if you will," she called over her shoulder.

Kidd was looking again at Margaret Vega and trying to rid herself of the odd feeling she had developed. Watching the girl sat alone and fuming, Kidd wasn't even sure of what to call the thing sitting in her chest. Curiosity? Anger? Fear? She thought about what Arthur said, about the plan not being _right,_ and at last, the wail of Claire Bandercoot rising higher and higher, Kidd settled on guilt.

And Daniels pulled out his revolver and shot the girl Claire through the bars.

Several things happened at the same time then, but it took Kidd quite a while to notice them all. First, the girl's crying stopped, but then the other girls had begun to scream in a muffled sounding way. They controlled it quickly, though. Kidd supposed they knew now what happened when they made too much noise.

The girl was heavy and contorted on the floor, blood soaking through her pajamas. Kidd thought, to herself, _I've never seen someone die before._

The dead girl shared a cell with Margaret Vega and another girl in glasses, and Margaret had gotten off the floor to pull the smaller girl away, wrestle her to the other side of the cell, hold her tightly, both covered in blood.

 _Don't feel bad, Richard,_ Kidd heard Blackwood tell Diaz. _You still have another pick._

Arthur's dark eyes were watching Kidd from underneath his floppy hair.

 _And look at Margaret Vega!_ Kidd looked at Blackwood lit by lamps and already climbing up to the hatch. She looked impressed. _Very motherly,_ she said, winking at Kidd.

Arthur grabbed Kidd's hand roughly in the dark, trying to pull her close to him but Mull took hold of her other wrist and led her toward the bright opening in the ceiling across the room.

Margaret Vega was holding a crying girl with glasses and they lied on the floor, Kidd could see them in a fading light.

Above deck the Bluefin again, where it was bright and blue out and Kincaid had gone somewhere to nurse his wound, Kidd followed the other apprentices toward the rowboats so they could leave. Arthur grabbed Kidd's hand again. He said, purposefully, " _Ruth,_ " and Kidd looked at him disoriented, unsure of where to sort all of her feelings.

 _Of course there would be killing, they were pirates, she shouldn't be so shocked, of course this would happen, this is what she wanted, of course, of course._

Arthur looked as lost as Kidd felt, and he was searching for something in her face.

"Elliot, _let her go_ ," Mull said, yanking Kidd away again.

Kidd watched Blackwood and Daniels approach Arthur as she got aboard the rowboat. "Let's talk, Boy," Kidd heard Blackwood say.

—

They didn't come for the body until late that night.

The little girl hardening in her death on the other side of the cell made it a little difficult for Margaret to pretend that she wasn't in an actual horror movie, that she wasn't likely going to die there in that cell, having never seen her father again, having none of her questions answered.

And she had a lot of questions.

Most of them were _why?_ Why them? Why her? And what for? Who were these monsters? What did they want? Who was that girl who knew her name? She was young like the boy who had bleached Margaret's hair — most of them were young except for the burly men and the small black woman — _the captain —_ and the tall, white haired man with blue eyes who stood beside her.

But the girl who knew her name…in the lamplight Margaret watched her talk about her like she knew her…she looked normal, like someone on Facebook she was friends with but had never met, with brown skin and fat freckles all over her cheeks and nose and eyelids, reddening brown hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head. She looked _sweet_. It was a betrayal to see her on the other side of those bars, watching Margaret and the others like that.

And _what for_? Glancing at the dead and the living little girls locked up with her, Margaret was afraid to know what.

The other girls had questions, too.

"Did you see the fairy?" said the littlest girl with the lisp in the other cell. By then, Margaret knew her name was Amy and that she was six years old.

Was Margaret in a coma? Had she already died...or are fairies real?

"Are they going to leave us in here with her?" said Victoria, who had braces and was ten.

"Are they going to shoot us, too?" Hannah was seven and had red hair.

"Did you catch it?" said the other living girl in Margaret's cell. Her name was Mia. She was from Scotland and she wore glasses. She was nine.

"What?" said Margaret. Hours before, Margaret sat alone in the left corner of the cell. Now, Mia sat with Margaret. She and the others were now repelled from the bars that separated the two cells, where the little girl lay, waiting. No one was crying anymore.

"They're giving us to someone," said Mia, "called Pan."

That was the last question Margaret had: _who is Peter Pan?_

When they came for the body at last, there was only three of them. Two of the big ones and the mop-haired boy: the same group from before the others came.

One of the big ones held Margaret and Mia at gunpoint while the other unlocked the cell and came inside. "No funny business from the two of ye," he said, picking up the dead girl and stuffing her stiff, bloody body into a sack.

Then they brought in rags and a bucket of soapy water. "That's for you to clean up a bit," said the boy quietly. They put one in the other cell, too. Margaret thought the boy didn't seem as haughty as he had before. He seemed, Margaret thought, ashamed. Or maybe she just wanted him to. She wanted him to see why he should help her get home — because they were nearly the same age, and so it could have been him thrown in this cell, or _her_ , the girl who knew Margaret's name.

"Get some rest," the boy said. One of the big men waited for him by the hatch. "Early tomorrow morning we will be transferring you to a inn ashore. You'll be much more comfortable there. Put these on before then." Reaching through the bars of the other cell, the boy placed a pile of folded up clothing on the floor. Moving over to Margaret's cell, the boy placed hers and Mia's piles separately. He patted one and gave Margaret a pointed look. "This one," he said, "is yours. It's larger."

Something about the boy's gaze gave Margaret's heart a hopeful squeeze and the moment the hatch closed and the boy and the man had left, Margaret scrambled over to the clothes and lifted up the pile he had indicated. It was a light blue night gown, long and made of cotton — it appeared that's what he'd left all of the girls, except—

Except there was a note left in the folds of her gown, and a necklace. Margaret's breath was loud in her mouth; she was so excited she thought she might be sick.

"What is it?" whispered one of the girls behind her. Amy or Mia or Hannah or Victoria.

In the light of a lamp left on the wall by the hatch, Margaret could read the first line scrawled on the note: _I'm getting you all home before the sun rises,_ it said.

The charm on the necklace was an old acorn with a perfectly round hole on its side.

* * *

 **wow I care about this so much thanks for reading!**

 **\- zoe**


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